


a life in your shape

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [45]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, but mostly sad stuff dfshsfdh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: aziraphale dithers over his feelings during the 1940's church scene, and the ride home that follows. certain things occur
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Kudos: 33





	a life in your shape

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't write for like 4 days and then burst forwards with this in less than an hour like a rabid ferret so have fun reading it its a mess

his chest could collapse inwards, he thinks, if he dares to take another trepid step forwards. there's the faint scent of cologne bristling in his lungs, stuck in the pit of his throat like half-swallowed pomegranate seeds. _the_ pomegranate seeds, he thinks, romanticizing the situation at hand. surely, he could nurse such flavor from the palm of his hand, eat more than only six, and _fully_ engross himself in what's been forbidden. this restricted pleasure, unholy joy - his darling, dearest crowley, always coming to save him at the very last second. tracing his fingers in a delicate half-step above the jaunting lines of aziraphale's knuckles. passing him the suitcase, the literal hell in a hand basket that aziraphale couldn't possibly be more grateful for.

he'd remembered. he always remembers, it seems, what will and won't make aziraphale happy. kind, conscientious, though he mustn't say that out loud. _nobody's watching,_ crowley had once told him. _nobody ever has to know._ but there's something unremarkably commonplace about the glances they both cast over their shoulders, the words they mince and cut short, for fear of _what if._ what if there is an unseen listener, an overcast storm? the burgeoning hole that cuts its way between them, stacking gaps upon gaps until there's little more than a promise laced with arsenic left for them to maintain of each other. the arrangement, their only form of a relationship. the unspoken guarantee that they both want more, they both _desire_ \- but desire isn't enough.

desire's never enough. especially when you're a being born of the will to deny yourself what you really want. aziraphale is an angel, and to abstain, to _suffer_ in abstinence, is bred into his body as the only means of living. but crowley isn't like him. crowley's clearly buffering with the crack and snap of holding back. the ache it wears down on his body, crumbling the marrow laid inside his bones. he's yearning, just as aziraphale yearns. and he'd act on it, too, if aziraphale would only let himself allow it. 

(sometimes he wishes crowley were a little less gentle. sometimes he wishes crowley would just _take._ grab him by the bone of his jaw and press their mouths open as one. but then - then crowley smiles at him, holds the door open all too politely, and doesn't sit quite as close as aziraphale wants him to. and that wish dissipates within seconds, followed only by guilt. sheer, faith-ridden guilt.)

(crowley is too good a person for him. and he knows it. aziraphale _knows._ )

"should drop you off at the bookshop, yeah?" crowley asks. his voice is like warm silk, the taste of something sharp, yet entirely forgiving in aziraphale's mouth. he wants to clench his teeth around it, savor what he can of crowley's presence for as long as this blink of evening lasts. he only has so much time with him, after all. he has to enjoy it all. and he knows - he knows crowley is asking for nothing more than a reaffirmation. a secondary _no, thank you, that's not necessary._ because he's already waiting for aziraphale to tell him off, to scold him, to chide his wicked, wiley, _unruly_ ways. but aziraphale can't bring himself to, not tonight. for now, he'll let himself be known as an angel who rid home with a demon. and he won't punish himself for it. he won't punish himself, because he can't bear to punish crowley either.

"certainly. it's just around this corner, dear." he says. there's something lingering in his tone that he knows crowley won't play ignorant to. he'll pick up on it, and he'll show just enough concern to make it obvious that he _cares._ not that it ever wasn't obvious. he's cared for so long now, is it clear to him that aziraphale cares back? that he cares so very much, he can't step any closer, he can't risk crowley's life even if crowley is willing to himself.

no matter the decision he makes, he feels irrepentably selfish. but when crowley asks him if he's feeling alright, if he needs a companion to stay for the night, aziraphale only shakes his head. standing from his seat in the car, and muttering something bleary and, in the vaguest terms imaginable, _probably_ reassuring. crowley takes it for an answer, so that's all good and well. he can go home now, close the bookshop door and pray that nobody's seen them. that tonight is just like any other night, and he won't be responsible for an end he'd never be able to forgive himself for.

but he doesn't leave. not quite yet. 

spinning on his heel, and springing forwards with a glint of courage his body recognizes more than his brain, he pushes his mouth upon crowley's own. it only lasts for the briefest moment, the inexcusable sin of a _glorious_ second. but aziraphale loves it. aziraphale feels unimaginably fulfilled. and there's relief to the kiss, relief of giving, of letting crowley know that _he knows,_ he knows, and he loves him just as earnestly in return.

when he makes a run for it, slams his door shut and _squeals,_ (because, really, he's worked himself into quite the state) crowley doesn't come chasing after him. crowley acknowledges the distance, and lets him go. but the rumble of the bentley's engine starting is warm, sincere, and it doesn't feel like a cruel departure. it doesn't feel like aziraphale's pushed him back once more.

and if aziraphale stays up all night pressing his fingers to the sweet plush of his lips, touching what remains of crowley on his skin, then he's certain, just this one time, that nobody's watching to hold him accountable.


End file.
